


Won't You Be My Mate?

by Unloyal_Olio



Series: The One Where Derek Wants to Make Stiles His Mate and It's Blatant Porn [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Derek Hale, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Porn With Plot, The Bite is a little Dub!Con-ish, The Moon is Magical or something, Top Derek Hale, man sex, more man sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek could just ask, but he's not very good at that. Better to demonstrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't You Be My Mate?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation from the previous, but since the plot of the previous one was "Derek was mean to Stiles, but then he suddenly decides to give Stiles a blow job on his birthday" -- you don't necessarily need to read that one. LOL.
> 
> Warnings: As to the violence, it's an ouchy bite. There's no fighting or mean hurting. 
> 
> There's very dubious consent on one of the various blow jobs, and there's some manipulation/seduction (kind of) in the way Derek gets Stiles to accept the bite. Although, Stiles kind of sees through the seduction, so it's how you read it. But anyway, triggers!
> 
> For all of those of you who read yesterday--I didn't lose power (yay!) and this ended up being crazy long. So here we go:

When Stiles wakes up the morning after his birthday party, Derek is in his bed. Naked. He's not even covered with a triangle of sheet. Nope. All of his perfectly muscled manhood is on display, but Stiles can’t focus on the forest—because the metaphorical “tree,” that is, all nine or so inches of it, is poking directly into Stiles's hip bone.

"Do you think this is normal?" Stiles grumbles, because, just _really_. In normal person land, a drunken blow job the night before would not grant free range to said recipient's bedroom. Even though Stiles is pretty sure in Derek Land it probably does.

Derek doesn't say anything, but his dick bobs, popping on Stiles's stomach. It’s just so typical: Derek's dick is more expressive than he is.

"Look, asshole, I'm not playing this highly disturbing game," Stiles groggily says. He grabs his pillow and flumps over onto his belly.

Derek squeezes a hand under him. It slides right toward Stiles’s morning erection.

"I don't believe this is happening," Stiles groans. Just because his dick is awake, does not mean that the rest of him is.

Derek flips him over.

When Stiles looks up, Derek's dick is still very big and bobbing, but Derek ignores it, instead pulling Stiles out of his boxers. He's gotten at least three strokes in when he asks, "So you don't want my mouth?"

Stiles growls at him. Because um, sleepy-horny confusion.

Not to mention the part where Derek's dick is totally having a separate line of dialogue with Stiles. Besides being thick and generally fine-looking and nodding a lot, it's got a smear of liquid trailing down the side like a tear. Like it’s _sad_. If big Derek's modus operandi is to be curt and aggressive, then little Derek is using guilt tactics.

Derek snorts. "Staring at my dick isn't an answer."

Stiles scowls when Derek's hand goes off his dick, because Derek's hand was warm (Stiles’s room is chilly). "You are a creepy, evil person. Also, you don't like me."

"I'm a werewolf," Derek says, and then he bows his head to suck in Stiles.

Different from last night, Derek takes his time. With a lot of sniffing. It probably is a werewolf thing, but he buries his nose down there and sucks in long breaths. At least three times.

Slumped back against his pillow, Stiles is losing an argument with himself, because um, he doesn't even like Derek. He kind of hates Derek. Derek is a fucking bully. He's got the emotional depth of a koi pond. So, really, the one who should be setting boundaries is Stiles. It's just that when he looks up to see Derek moving up and down on his dick—it’s the best porn ever. And then when Derek takes him so deep that he makes a little gagging sound—Stiles surrenders, fucking flopping right back down into his pillow.

At some point, Derek uses his hand too, and Stiles is gripping the bars of his headboard as he grinds his teeth and bucks his hips and just comes and comes and comes.

Like last time, Derek swallows. His bottom lip is glistening when he stretches out beside Stiles.

Stiles rolls over on his side to look down. If Derek's dick was tearing up before, it's positively weeping now.

"Your dick is crying," Stiles says.

"Maybe," Derek says, "But I'll get over it." He jumps from Stiles bed. His jeans are bent over Stiles's desk chair, and apparently, boxers are optional, because he starts sliding them right on.

"Um, what was this?" Stiles asks, because he feels like he's missing something.

Like, mostly, he's very aware that Derek hasn't gotten off. Again.

Derek walks over to Stiles's door. Holding the knob, he frowns and turns back to Stiles. "Sex," he says, looking at Stiles like he's the dumb one.

"I got that."

"Yes, I think you did," Derek says, licking his lips.

And then he leaves.

Stiles screams into his pillow, and then he tries to figure out how this happened. There's the obvious: Derek is hot. Stiles is horny. But then there's the part where Stiles doesn't like him. Derek's been a jerk to him the whole damn year. Derek is a jerk. His face is stupid. His guilt-inducing dick is too.

The next time, Derek offers—because Stiles is certain he will—Stiles is saying no.

\- - -

Except the next morning, Stiles wakes up with a hot mouth on his dick. 

And when he comes this time, it's somehow sitting on the edge of the bed with Derek between his knees. Stiles is the one driving Derek’s head back and forth.

Afterwards, even though he knows Derek is going to be weird about it, he paws at Derek's dick. Yep, hard as a rock. The tip is moist and it’s sad and pining again. Stiles wraps his hand around it.

Derek unwraps his hand.

"But it wants me," Stiles whines.

This time Derek kisses Stiles long and slow before he leaves.

When he's in the shower, Stiles replays what's just happened. It's just so frustrating, because it doesn't make sense. And what's annoying is that he doesn't even think Derek's doing this as some weird asshole game. Not at all. Because the look on Derek’s face when he pulled Stiles's hand off of him—it was resigned. There’s also the tidbit where Derek looks way too proud every time Stiles comes.

Then again, Stiles is pretty sure that part of Derek's diabolical plan is to seduce Stiles with sex.

Which is not working.

Except for the part where Stiles keeps happily shooting his spunk into Derek's mouth every time it’s offered.

Just it'd be easier—it'd make more sense—if Derek was getting off too.

Because Stiles feels bad for Derek’s poor dick. It was very pink. And rather hot and swollen.

In his mental redo, he takes Derek in his mouth, he licks at the tear on the tip, and he sucks the top in slowly. Then he goes nuts. It's Stiles’s knees that get bruised. It's his lips who are blood-red from agitation and slick with cum at the end. And when he looks up, Derek is still an asshole, but he's one that's smiling at Stiles.

Two minutes later, white streams join the clear spiral down the drain.

Stiles considers drowning himself.

\- - -

At school on Monday, Scott refuses to answer any questions or even _listen_.

"Derek said I couldn't talk about it," he protests when Stiles jabs him with a pencil.

"So you listen to him over your best friend?"

"He used his alpha voice—and um, really, you should ask him yourself." Scott leans away from him, and when his phone beeps, probably a text from Allison, Scott scrambles to take his phone out of his pocket. "Uh, I have to take this."

Because he hates himself, Stiles ends up hunting down Erica. Unlike the rest of the pack, Erica never seems to suffer Derek's wrath. It's probably because as a female, she can handle as much pain as Derek. Or maybe it's because she's even more of an asshole than Derek is. But whatever, Stiles sits down next to her at lunch and waits.

"You're sitting by _me_ today?" Erica feigns surprise. "I wonder why?" And because she's a horrible horrible person, she picks up a carrot and starts sucking up and down on it for the whole cafeteria to see.

Two tables over, Danny is frowning disconcertedly. He probably thinks Erica could use some tips.

Stiles doesn't know what his face looks like, but it's definitely not happy, because Erica spits out the carrot and laughs.

"You're..." Stiles's mouth shapes a lot of letters before deciding not to say anything that could get him hit. The last time Erica really backhanded him, it sent him to the nurse’s office.

"I'm not Derek? Is that what you were going to say? God, you smell like him. He might as well have pissed on you the way you smell. And I'd tell you it was disgusting, except that it's not, because I listened to all of those sweet little sounds you were making last night, and wow, I gotta say. If you're ever up for a replay..."

Stiles closes his eyes. "What is Derek doing?"

"Besides blowing you every morning?" Erica snaps off the tip of the carrot. She crunches. Loudly.

"Well, yes," Stiles says with clenched teeth. "I just—is this a game? Because he fucking hates me. I don't get where this is coming from."

"He doesn't hate you," Erica says primly. "If anything, you two bite tails, but it never smells like real aggression, not from him. No, it smells more _sad_ , like..."

"Like what?"

"You're not a wolf, so you don't get it."

"And I'm not going to be a wolf."

Erica laughs so hard she chokes on a carrot chunk.

\- - -

Stiles spends the rest of the day in a confused lust haze. It's not fair. Erica is evil. Mostly because when she says bad things are going to happen, they normally do happen. Also, there's the problem where his mind keeps slipping to Derek. How he looked that morning. His fucking lips. His round ass. 

Stiles really should make a point to bite that. While he has the chance.

It makes it so that he’s even worse than normal at Lacrosse practice. Coach spends an extra ten minutes yelling at him afterward. He’s finally unlocking the jeep when Derek presses up against him from behind.

He knows it’s Derek because of the smell. The dark fragrance of leather and salt. Or maybe it’s simply that Stiles recognizes his breathing.

Either way, when Derek says, “open the door,” Stiles does exactly as he says.

Derek pushes him into his back seat and jerks him under a blanket. Stiles is kissing, licking at his neck as he does it, and it’s pathetic but he just watches Derek. Watches his face because he’s fascinated and he doesn’t understand, and Derek is also stupidly gorgeous.

Stiles doesn't miss that Derek's canines lengthen when they're like this.

Later after he’s come, Stiles asks about it, and Derek says, "Yeah, and my dick is hard too."

"I can fix that," Stiles informs him, and he plants his hand firmly on Derek's poor, neglected bulge.

"Maybe," Derek says with too much edge, and for a second, Stiles almost thinks Derek is going to bite him, because he yanks Stiles against him, and the sharp points of his teeth are pricking his skin. 

It makes Stiles choke in the middle of a breath.

Derek doesn't bite him, though. "You think you're so smart," he says, and before Stiles can protest, Derek kisses him, long and hard, and just fuuuuuuhhhhck.

Fuck.

Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.

Stiles melts right into it. Like he can’t do anything else.

Whatever this is, it’s getting worse.

\- - -

Stiles wanks himself twice that night before bed. It would be nice if he had self-control, but no, on round one, he does it imagining Derek’s weight crushing him down into the mattress. In his mind Derek’s dick is sticky silk against his, and they grind until the friction pays off.

On round two, Stiles finds the lube, and then his fingers find his hole, and he’s done this once or twice, but this time, he ends up fucking his thumb at the same time that he thrusts into his mattress. The fact that he’s groaning “Derek” as he comes means nothing. _Nothing_.

\- - -

Scott drags Stiles to a pack meeting, but as soon as they're there, Scott walks him to the door and freezes. Stiles is about to ask _what the hell_ when Scott fucking bolts for the woods.

For a second, Stiles thinks about shouting after him, but no, that's pointless because there's only one person who could make Scott skedaddle like that. Fucking Derek. 

Stiles kicks open the door and marches into the living room. With each fuming step, he's preparing his speech.

Except, um, fuck.

Derek is sprawled naked across the length of the couch. Every time before this, Stiles has been drunk or still half-asleep or just so close that he couldn’t look everywhere at once, but um, when Derek pulls his arms over his head to smirk at Stiles, the movement coincides with abdominals rippling, and Stiles is having weird thoughts, like how the veins in Derek's arms are strangely pretty, almost in the same way that the veins in his dick are. Both sets are prominent and blue and bulging, and Stiles wasn't hard when he walked in the room, but Derek is just staring at him like nakedness is normal. Like sex is the easiest thing on the planet. That it's not complicated. Or messy. Or doesn't involve loopy _feelings_. Because Stiles has lots of those.

Derek finally breaks their stare. He leans over to the end table to pull out a white something. It's got the word "Glide" on the part of the tube that isn't rolled up.

Stiles might have squeaked. His ass cheeks definitely clench. “I was told this was a _pack meeting_.”

Derek raises his brows but doesn’t say a word. With Stiles watching him with owl eyes, Derek squeezes some into his hand. Hiking his hips, he reaches his fingers around to rub it—there—right into his hole.

Stiles has been attempting to maintain a stance of authority. When he’d entered the room, his hands were planted on his hips and his chin had been held high, but now his arms are out to the sides. Because... balance. His mouth is definitely hanging open.

There's no dimmer switch this time. It's regular old yellow light, and somehow, the fact that Derek looks so damn fucking good in it just makes him seem even more inhuman. But not monster-inhuman. No, he looks like a goddamn UnSeelie king or fucking Cronos lying on the stars. A fallen angel, Stiles considers.

Derek is flexible in a way that isn't normal for human men so that he makes it look easy, even comfortable, when his finger pushes into his hole. His ass clenches at the pressure, but Derek just huffs like it's a funny tickle and keeps going. Thrusting his finger in and out.

Stiles is kind of mesmerized. Because, um, Derek's hole is pink and dark. It looks tight, and Stiles bets it’s really warm too.

He nearly falls over when Derek says, "Take off your clothes."

Stiles blinks a lot, because Derek's finger has become fingers—plural.

"Do your shirt first."

Somehow Stiles’s fingers find his buttons, and he manages to unbutton them. But the shirt is a shield, a veil—Stiles doesn’t take it off. When put next to Derek's sculptured body, Stiles feels small and kind of weak. And he’s a bit embarrassed about it.

Derek must smell the hesitation because he doesn't call Stiles out over the shirt. His eyes hone on Stiles's fly and he says, "Now your jeans."

As soon as they're pushed down, Stiles kicks out of them.

Derek has three fingers pushed inside. It looks like it should hurt, except that Derek's head is relaxed back even if his eyes are heavily lidded. "Now come here," he says.

Stiles takes a few steps. But he stops short. Derek’s eyes are just so fucking intense, and kind of strangely human in how green they are. An arm's reach away, Stiles drops to his knees and shuffles toward Derek.

Derek grabs his shirt collar and yanks Stiles on top of him. The kiss is hot and greedy, like Derek’s missed his mouth—and Stiles wonders if he might be projecting—that maybe it’s not Derek who was missing Stiles but Stiles who was missing Derek. Whoever is missing who, though, isn’t that important, because Derek pushes Stiles’s shirt off his shoulders. For a second, Derek stares at him, just looking.

Stiles is half-expecting an asshole comment, but no Derek growls and attacks a nipple.

Somehow, Stiles ends up underneath, and then Derek is yanking down his boxers. His foot kicks them off, so that they fly onto the rug. Then, God, they’re both completely bare and hard.

Derek’s finger is moving down the center of Stiles’s chest. It’s going in random loops and lines, like he’s playing connect the dots. He’s looking at Stiles like he’s a bit awed.

"I don’t get it," Stiles says.

Derek doesn’t look up. No, he scoffs in frustration. When Derek speaks, the words are spoken to Stiles’s dick. "You don’t have to get it. You just have to let go. Then I can give it to you."

Stiles thinks Derek is leaving when he pushes off Stiles, but he only takes two steps before sitting down in the center of the floor. Then he reaches for Stiles’s hand.

Stiles lets himself be pulled down. When Derek grabs Stiles finger and quite deliberately presses it _there_ , in that slick spot between his legs, Stiles takes big, long breaths.

Oh. And yeah, he can oblige. "I’ll be gentle," Stiles says.

Derek doesn’t look impressed by this statement.

When he pushes his finger in, it can’t be bad though, because Derek groans and his head thumps back with a noise too loud for the quiet of the room. On his stomach, his dick looks heavy and long. He’s looking at Stiles like this is exactly what he wants. It makes no fucking sense. And yet, Stiles’s finger is pushed inside of Derek. He’s fucking _inside_ of him.

God, maybe it’s a generosity thing, but Stiles doesn’t just want to take. He wants to give too. And also, maybe, there’s a bit of an obsession going on with Derek’s dick—and how he’s never come around Stiles. Stiles uses his free hand to grip Derek’s erection.

Derek, yet again, knocks his hand away. "No, your dick."

"B-buh-but," Stiles stammers, just not believing. He deliberately blinks his eyes to make sure that Derek’s lips are moving and are saying those words and that this is not just a figment of his imagination. "That doesn’t seem very alpha-y?"

"I said I want your dick. Put it in."

"I’ve never…"

"I know."Derek’s face falls. "And I thought—but if you don’t want to, you don’t have to." He starts to roll away.

Stiles shoves him back down. "I just—no—I really fucking want. I want. But what if I screw up?"

"Then put it in." And Derek squeezes lube onto his hand and spreads it up and down on Stiles’s cock.

"Oh my fucking—shit. Fuck." Stiles is staring. Stiles is shaking. But his hands are also moving in a panic, finding the right angle so he can do exactly as Derek says.

When he starts to push in, Derek’s eyes flutter shut. Stiles is worried that he’s done something wrong, but Derek says, "Keep going."

Stiles grabs the sides of Derek’s flawless ass for handholds, and then he’s rocking in, little by little going deeper, and his brain is melting. Possibly, he’s going to start crying. The noise coming out of his mouth is one long keening whine.

Once he’s fully in, Stiles is terrified he’s going to come from the tight pressure alone. His breaths are coming out hoarse, and it's a good thing that Derek has crazy fast healing because Stiles is worried that his nails are leaving marks.

It's Derek who moves them. He puts his hands on Stiles's sides and starts gently pushing so that Stiles sways forward and back until he finds control over his body again. When Derek puts his heels in Stiles's ass, encouraging him that way, Stiles pulls out enough to thrust.

When he slams back in, his whole body folds with the pressure, and he's probably epically bad at this. There was no mental preparation, especially not for Stiles being the one in control, and yet, Stiles wants to be good. He wants to make this good for Derek. He doesn't want to jizz in two minutes.

"Stop thinking," Derek snaps, and um, then Stiles is being yanked down to Derek's chest. The kiss is mostly bite, and then Derek is rolling them over.

Stiles slides out in this process, but then the angle completely changes. Derek kneels on either side of him, then he's the one sitting down on Stiles's dick.

And Stiles is just lying there. His hands are on top of Derek's knees. Derek's much hairier than he is so it makes the grip feel almost sandy, scratchy. Also older, more alpha and less dumb teenage boy. What he really wants is to touch Derek's cock because it's fucking sobbing, like it's having a mental fit. As Derek pumps up and down on him, Stiles is aware of how much happier dick his own dick is.

"I want you to—too," Stiles gasps out. "Let me." This time he doesn't back off when Derek tries to bat his hand away, he gets his hand on Derek's cock and he sets an awkward, if steady rhythm.

Derek might be rolling his eyes, or who knows? Stiles can't really tell because Derek's face is skyward, sweat is trailing down along his jaw, dripping off his chin.

It happens three strokes later. At first Stiles thinks that Derek's getting close—that he's made Derek start to come—but no, the swelling is lower. Like, at the base. Stiles has spent enough time on the internet and watched a sufficient number of nature shows that he recognizes it: a knot.

Above him, Derek lets out a startled growl, and then Stiles's hand is pried off and pinned to the rug.

When Derek looks down at him, his eyes are red. His canines are lengthened.

"Okay. Wolf thing. I just wanted to reciprocate."

"I know," Derek rasps, and with his teeth clenched like that—it's not all that human. Stiles should be scared, upset even. He is, after all, fucking a werewolf.

But he's not upset. He's more turned on than ever. "You're way too—just hot," Stiles rasps, and he's close.

Derek must know he's close. He thrusts down harder, faster.

Stiles's hand tries to keep up with the pace. His spine is burning like its deep in the forge.

Derek is saying, "Let it go. Come on. Come."

When the tension peaks, the underside of Stiles's head is grinding into the hard floor. His hands flail in the air, smack the rug—smack Derek's knee. There's something about the deep pressure, the way it sucks Stiles in from top to bottom, that makes him come harder than he ever has in his entire life.

And then Derek is just kissing him. It's soft and kind of slobbery, and he's aware that he's still inside Derek even as he's softening. There's a feeling of sticky dribble at the back of his balls. Hairs are probably going to pull when they separate.

"You didn't come," Stiles complains.

Derek shushes him.

"I want you to."

"Shut up." But Derek's voice is soothing, even nice. Which is so weird. Like Stiles got locked in a parallel universe, one with a sex dimension. Sex. Yes, fuck, sex.

"We just had _sex_ , the penetration kind," Stiles says, frowning, but he says it mostly to himself.

With a snort, Derek pulls off of him. They both wince cuz yeah pulling hairs and um, spunk is like bio-glue.

Stiles is left staring at Derek's still obvious erection. Looking at it makes him angry, because Derek won't even let him _try_.

And he would say that. He would complain, except that Derek is stretching from side to side, and it's very obvious that he's acclimating or healing or something because of the less-than-little fact that Stiles dick was just piked up in him, so Stiles shoves away his worries.

When Derek says, "Bed," Stiles follows.

It's when Derek is curled around that Stiles finally asks. "The reason you won't let me get you off—is it because you're worried you'll hurt me?"

"I would never hurt you."

Which isn't a direct answer.

"I don't get it, then. If you can't... let go, then why me? Why not another wolf?" It's not like Erica wouldn't be up for the task, Stiles thinks bitterly.

Derek is quiet for a long moment, long enough that Stiles doubts that he'll get an answer, but then he says, "I'm only ever hard around you."

Uh, oh. Stiles attempts to process this. That Derek is obsessive shouldn’t come as a surprise. "Oh, um, you mean since my birthday?"

"No," Derek says, and he kisses Stiles's neck. "Since last year."

"Wait—what?" Stiles tries to twist around to see Derek’s face.

But Derek braces his arms so he can't.

"No, you can't—" Stiles struggles. "You've been a total, utter prick for the past year. That makes _zero_ fucking sense."

Derek lets him go.

When Stiles turns around to face him, Derek is doing his dumbass thing of just staring, stone-faced.

"Just explain it to me. A whole year? Is this _why_ you've been such a jerk? Because back then it didn't make any sense. I liked you. And I thought you liked me, and then you were just a fucking bastard."

"The problem was that I liked you too much." Derek shrugs, leaning back. "You wouldn’t take the bite, and besides, I wasn't going to touch you when you were underage."

Stiles would make a nasty comment about how he poofed into a real boy on his eighteenth birthday, but there's a little too much sear in Derek's tone at the word "underage." And Stiles has gotten hints—mostly from Allison—about crap between her aunt and Derek, so he clamps his mouth shut on that topic. Instead he asks, "But now you'll touch me all the time, right? You'll give and you'll take nothing. And that's supposed to be normal?"

"I'm an alpha. It's instinct with you."

"But I'm not a werewolf—" Stiles takes a breath. "—even though you want me to be."

It feels scary when Derek kisses him, because then his eyes are focused over Stiles's shoulder and he's talking fast. "I won't bite you. You have to ask, but I won't leave you either. I won't keep showing up in your bed unless you force me away. If you don't want this, you have to reject me. Because I can't leave. I'm not going to stop wanting you unless you reject me."

He says all of that and then his mouth is back on Stiles. He's licking inside like he wants to devour him. It's almost too much. Like Stiles might suffocate from the lack of air. Or the weight of Derek's confessions. Or maybe his own quiet desperation.

Because back then, a year ago, it'd been the worst kind of crush. He'd fallen in love, probably. He'd been quietly embarrassed at the amount of pride he felt when Derek had focused on him with such intense attention. It had made Stiles feel all the more stupid when that same pride was flipped onto its raw side. He'd felt burnt and stupid for even possibly thinking that Derek could want him back that way.

So now he's here. He's being kissed like he's going to run away, like Derek believes this won't last.

It doesn't make sense that it's his choice.

That's why he breaks the kiss to draw Derek closer, to pull his face into Stiles's neck, and shush him and brush his skin with silly, smoochy pecks. It's not enough, but Derek does relax after a few minutes. He doesn't let go of Stiles, though, if anything, he holds him tighter.

At some point, they fall asleep.

\- - -

The next day, Stiles goes home and takes a cold shower. Then, he gets on the internet and starts digging.

There isn't much. The one word he keeps seeing over and over again is "mate," but he'd kind of already made that connection, even if he hadn't used the term. As for the details, he gains more from reading one weird love poem than anything else. It says things like "And a monster I wasn't, because a union we were" and there's some line about "locked beneath the moon, I took your light." Yeah, the word "locked" totally makes him snort, but then he also feels... hot.

He has to force himself to breathe.

If he were to say yes, it would mean becoming a wolf.

He's sure about that. And when he realizes he's actually considering it—becoming a fucking werewolf—it scares the crap out of him. Even now, Stiles wonders if part of the pull he's feeling—the pull to say yes—is from paranormal pheromones or magnetic realignment or something that would make Deaton frown a lot.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't still _want_.

Because he’s not going to lie: he wants Derek very badly.

\- - -

The day before the full moon Derek doesn't show up. At school, not Scott—not even Erica—will talk to him.

When Stiles texts Derek, _where are you?_ , he gets no message in response.

He's not in Stiles's room the next morning, either.

It shouldn’t matter.

But Stiles is going insane.

\- - -

The next day, Stiles goes and hunts down Deaton. Because even though he’s got the whole I’m-full-of-dark-secrets vibe going, he also seriously melts over hurt puppies, so Stiles feels he ought to be able to mostly trust him.

“What does it mean if I’m Derek’s mate?”

Deaton doesn’t even glance up from the instruments he’s cleaning. “So he finally told you.”

Stiles crosses his arms. “In so much as Derek uses words, I guess he kind of did. Um, but you’re not surprised—you knew?”

Deaton nods, but doesn’t say anything more.

“If I don’t—if I say no—does he die? Can he be with anyone else?”

“He’ll be fine, Stiles. It’s just that his wolf has chosen you. Nothing more.”

“And if I want to be with him, I have to be a wolf.” Stiles stares down at his hands.

“Why don’t you by the way?” When Stiles glances up, Deaton’s expression is neutral.

“Um, snarly monsterness?”

“Derek will be your anchor—immediately. You won’t have to worry about attacking anyone.”

“I read that—I just—what’s so bad about being human?”

Deaton rolls his eyes. “Nothing. Just like there’s nothing wrong with be a werewolf. Most wolves live quite happy, peaceful lives.”

“Like Derek’s family used to.”

“Yes. They were happy. And I guess, that’s my question to you. Would being with Derek make you happy?”

\- - -

That evening, with the full moon hanging overhead, Stiles goes to Derek’s. He is not there, but Stiles makes himself comfortable. There’s tea in the pantry, plus apples in the fruit bowl, so Stiles commandeers the remote and starts watching some B-movie on SyFy.

He jumps when Derek’s door opens.

“Tonight is not a good time.” Derek’s jaw is rigid.

Stiles takes a bite from his apple. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“It’s the full moon.” Derek points at the window, like Stiles hasn’t seen it.

He’s still chewing when he smiles and says, “Maybe, I missed you.”

Derek pinches his brow. “Stiles, either you need to leave or I need to leave, because normally I can control it—but you’re here alone—and with the past week—and—” Derek takes a strained breath. “I said I wasn’t going to hurt you. I meant that. So leave.”

On the coffee table, Stiles fingers the apple. Balancing it, he spins it like a top. “And what if I want you to hurt me?”

Eyes bulging, Derek makes a strangled noise.

And then he’s there. Breathing on Stiles’s neck. His eyes are red. There’s some serious facial hair going on. Also, the extra long canines.

Stiles kisses him.

Derek kisses him back but carefully, like he doesn’t believe Stiles won’t break and run.

“Just—I need to ask something. Is this just a sex thing? Or a wolf thing? Like do you just want me for my skinny butt or is this a... a Stiles thing?”

Derek closes his eyes, and then Stiles watches as he swallows and takes a couple of deep long yoga breaths. It’s kind of cool to watch as his claws and nails recede to more human-like lengths. When Derek opens his eyes again, they're back to their normal soft shade. “All of it, but yeah, mostly a you-thing.” 

Stiles bites his bottom lip, looking down. “My, um, excellent jokes?”

“I was thinking more like your magic sex smell.” Derek deadpans.

Stiles jabs at his side, but Derek laughs—like a real silly laugh—and then oh my God, the kissing. With joy. And dick.

Yes, that’s Derek’s dick grinding into him. 

Stiles’s hand scrambles, hunting for it. “It’s been so neglected. It needs some love.”

Derek not only lets him seize it, but he thrusts up into Stiles’s hand. His voice is hoarse as he says, “I’m going to bite you. I can’t be that close—the way—and not bite you.”

Stiles is a little scared, a lot turned on by that. “Well…” He shrugs. “…if it’s stops Derek junior from being sad.”

“Derek junior? Fuck you,” Derek says, but then he’s yanking off Stiles’s shirt. His eyes are back to glowing red as he says, “Walk toward my bed.”

By the time they are actually in the bed, they’ve left a trail of clothes in the hallway. 

Stiles can’t stop touching Derek’s dick. It’s a thing. He might be a little obsessed. But Stiles always knew that Derek’s dick must love him, and now as Stiles strokes it, it’s tense in his hand, and yeah, it’s leaking, but Stiles is pretty sure that those are cum-tears of joy.

“I like, but just... stop for now.” Derek fits his palm over Stiles hand.

“But—”

“But I want to come inside of you.”

Oh. Well, that would also do it. “I’ve never...”

“I know. Can I?”

The little plea in his voice makes Stiles shiver. “You can.”

Derek’s eyes burn red again, and um, god, that’s hot.

Then there are kisses. One finger, then two. The third is a little much. Derek’s fingers are bigger than Stiles’s. But then again so is his dick, so Stiles bears down against the pressure and says, “More. I can take it.”

Derek gives it to him.

When they’re finally there—when Stiles is as stretched as he’s going to be—Derek asks, “Are you sure? Because—”

Stiles says, “Shut up and...” He thrusts with his hips.

As Derek lines up the head, Stiles forces himself to breathe. And then he forces himself to breathe even more. 

Derek waits until his breaths even out—or maybe he’s listening to Stiles’s heartbeat—but then he’s pushing in more, and Stiles isn’t even sure if he can fit in all the way, but he sinks deeper, and Stiles doesn’t quite feel sorry for Derek’s dick anymore, because it’s stinging—but then more breaths. Long, deep breaths.

Derek is kissing him. Dirty, smug kisses that make Stiles try to bite him.

But then Derek makes another small thrust, and Stiles snaps, “I hate you,” but Derek must be able to hear the lie—because he thrusts again, and there’s still a little too much pull, but he also really, really likes the way Derek feels inside of him.

And it gets better. It does. Derek keeps a steady rhythm that starts hitting just so, and of course, Derek has already found his prostrate. 

“You are such a stupid, sexy beast,” Stiles groans as Derek picks up speed.

“Yours,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t miss the way he shivers when he says it.

And then Derek doesn’t stop shivering. He’s fighting the change, Stiles realizes. It’s because he’s close. 

“You can,” Stiles says, because maybe he’s not close, but that’s okay. Stiles has come like twenty times in the past seven days. Stiles, 20. Derek, 0.

Derek smashes his face into Stiles’s neck. He’s still shaking. Sweat is starting to thicken between them, and Stiles’s ass is sore but filled as Derek drives into it—and when Derek’s teeth drag across his neck, Stiles can feel the two sharp pricks apart from the rest. The breaths change to choked sobs. Hands tighten on Stiles’s hips. Derek’s thrusting and Stiles is just trying to brace them so they don’t fall off the bed.

It’s when Derek freezes, his back hardening under Stiles hands, that it happens: teeth sink into his neck at the same time that pressure expands below, and Stiles feels inverted. It’s vertigo and chaos. Pleasure is the same as pain. Heavy above him, Derek kisses Stiles's neck.

Outside the window, the full moon smiles.

Stiles smiles back.

\- - -

The next morning, when he wakes up, there’s no mark on his neck. Which tells him all he needs to know.

His ass has a stretched feeling but doesn’t hurt. If anything, he feels like he could go again.

Stretched out in the covers, Derek is still sleeping. But when Stiles pulls back the duvet, Derek junior is totally awake.

He’s just a perfect little fucker. Stiles tells him this, then kisses him good morning. With lots of spit.

When Derek jerks awake, Stiles gets a grumbled, “What are you doing?”

“Waking you up,” Stiles says, and then he gets back to business.

**Author's Note:**

> This series is going to have a hiatus because I have to work again. Boo. No more hurrication. Also, I'm supposed to write a novel in November. This Nano shindig.


End file.
